


something i'll regret i said

by riverbed



Series: somethings [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Affection, Alcohol, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Bondage, Family Issues, Improvised Sex Toys, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Nipple Torture, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Character Death, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Issues, Self-Destructive Behavior, Texting, gratuitous touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander leans forward, elbows on the table. He rubs his forehead and closes his eyes. “I just - I get so mean when I’m high. It’s supposed to help me relax but it doesn’t. It makes me lash out.”</p><p>“So maybe don’t get high.” Thomas folds his napkin in his lap as he sees the server approaching. “Or, rather, don’t get high when your mental health is not prime to begin with. Don’t look at me like that, Alexander. You run away from things.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	something i'll regret i said

**Author's Note:**

> this whole thing is getting pretty serious when i originally intended this series to be dumb hatesex oneshots, lol.
> 
> here's some feelings and a fight

This joint isn’t cutting it. Whatever rec shop Alex goes to is doing him a disservice. Thomas assumes he has a tolerance that’s better than Thomas’ own, considering how little Thomas smokes, but he still feels edgy, frustrated. Thomas’ apartment is in a state of dishevelment, at least relative to how sterile he normally keeps it. Hamilton isn’t messy, per se, but he tends to shift things a couple degrees  _ off. _ Not just physically, Thomas might add. Everything with Hamilton is a little off.

Alex lifts his head from the back of the couch to meet Thomas’ eyes, blows smoke out his nose. His nostrils flare. “Are we having our first fight right now?”

“I’m just saying, Alexander -” Thomas enunciates all four syllables of his name carefully for emphasis - “I won’t be your repository for the conversations you should be having with your wife.”

Alex has been here all weekend, avoiding Eliza’s calls, avoiding her worry. Thomas is the only reason she knows he’s alive - he’d told her this morning when she’d texted him. She’d been terrified he’d had a mood and left the state, retreated from everything. He sort of did. Thomas is furious that Alexander is using him and his home as a shield from whatever he can’t deal with. All his inside-out problems. At least Jefferson was forced to learn how to confront his own. Alexander thinks there is an ocean between them, that Thomas couldn’t possibly relate. He’s delusional.

Now, Alex’s eyes flash, bright fire, and Thomas knows that look, knows he should have backed out long before this point. “What would you know about it?” Alex seems entirely remorseful the second after he says it, his eyes going wide and apologetic, but the words still slice right through Thomas like a hot knife. He realises all at once that entering a battle of wills with Hamilton had been a mistake - he should have just let him vent, because he’s always fine after venting.

He can’t do this right now. He doesn’t want to be reminded of his wife, the guilt he’s tried so hard to work through in regards to her death, the excruciatingly slow progress he’s made.

“Let yourself out when you’re sober,” he tells Alex quietly, and he’s not proud of the lack of power in his voice. He ambles down the hall and doesn’t look back to see Hamilton watch him go.

He has never in his life used the lock on this bedroom door - living alone will do that to you - but he does now. He sits on the edge of his bed for a while, scans the small selection of books distributed between his dresser and nightstand but ultimately ends up rolling over onto his front without one. His phone is in the living room - fuck. He angrily strips off his shirt and jeans while stubbornly remaining prone on the bed, throwing them forcefully across the room. He falls asleep and has vivid dreams of a torrential downpour and a car swerving on a slippery road, waking up again and again just before the moment of impact. From four AM on, he gives up and stares numbly at the pillow he puts over his face, feeling cheated - if his mind could play it all the way through, maybe he’d get some answers.

 

*

 

When he shuffles out in the morning, feeling more hungover from crying than from weed, Alex is still there, of course. Cramped on the sofa with his head lolling over the arm of the couch and one leg hanging off the side. He’s going to be sore, and as Thomas remembers their spat he can’t help but delight the slightest bit in the fact.

“Up,” he grunts, jostling Hamilton with a hard hand on his shoulder. He falls off the couch as he wakes, scrambling to hop back up and then wincing as he feels his upper back protest to the movement. Thomas goes into the kitchen, makes himself a single cup of black, bitter coffee using the Keurig and ignores Alexander as he gets his orange juice from the fridge. By the time he leaves, Alex is in his slacks and socks but without his shirt or shoes, looking after him with his mouth agape. Thomas allows himself the catharsis of slamming his front door.

 

*

 

Alex makes it to the meeting, though he stumbles in late. Thomas finds himself remembering all the things he finds distasteful about him, studying his crooked tie and pink, badly tucked-in shirt, and he wrinkles up his nose in disgust - it’s like all the things he’s discovered over the past few months are being reversed and nullified.

Just like old times.

Washington drones on and Thomas sees Hamilton stealing desperate glances up at him between his note-taking. Washington nods at him at one point, and Thomas feels his cheeks burn furiously.

The meeting lets out, and Alex scampers after Washington like a puppy. Thomas sighs. Perhaps he’ll take an early lunch. He’s allowed one drink on his own time and could really use it. He’s just shot a text to Madison to ask after his plans when his phone lights up in his hand.

 

**(11:15a)** Please.

 

Thomas looks about the empty conference room, the ugly eggshell walls, and then shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath in through his nose.

 

**(11:16a)** what.

 

**(11:16a)** I'm going out of my mind. I need to make it up to you.

 

**(11:18a)** im not even trying to be an asshole, hamilton. but i don't think you can.

 

He thinks real hard before he hits send, considers changing  _ hamilton _ to  _ alex. _ He doesn't. 

 

**(11:21a)** Please.

 

All that time, and that’s the best he could do.

Thomas lets it sit through the afternoon. He has a $3 beer with Madison at their favorite taco truck and it’s massively refreshing. He works dutifully through the afternoon and actually gets some things accomplished, able to ignore his phone, which he’s shoved in a locked drawer he never accesses.

Alexander approaches him at his parking space, the spot Thomas considers the beginning of their arrangement. He sneaks up behind him and makes Thomas jump practically out of his skin - he'd been fixing his hair in the tinted window and Hamilton’s gaunt reflection just appears behind him. Thomas reminds himself briefly that vampires don't use mirrors.

“Alexander.” He straightens up, smoothing out the lapel of his suit. Alexander looks up at him expectantly. Always wanting something. Thomas very quickly realizes that he once again has to be the adult here. “I'm still really upset, and while i appreciate the space you've been giving me, it's not enough yet.” He reaches behind him to push the door handle down. “I'll let you know when it is.”

He's got in and turned on the ignition when Hamilton’s hand curls onto the windowsill - shutting him out so literally seemed cruel, so Thomas had rolled it down even as he'd climbed into the driver’s seat. Thomas looks at his fingers, gulps. He pointedly does not look up far enough to meet Hamilton’s eyes. 

“I am so sorry,” he says, and his voice is so small, so quiet and crackling, that Thomas is the tiniest bit inclined to believe him. “Please, let me do something for you. Make me suffer. Make me bleed - God, something. I need you again.”

“It’s been one day, Alex.” Thomas shudders to think of what it means that Hamilton would rather literally bleed than be away from him, that he's offering his body for a second chance. That Hamilton assumes there is something bubbling below the surface that drives Jefferson to hurt him to release his own pain is troublesome, and it makes a dull pang of guilt throb in his gut that he is somewhat compelled to act on it.

But - Hamilton’s already suffering. This is the way to make him suffer, Thomas knows from the looks Alex has been giving him when they cross each others’ paths and the noticeable change to his gait when he observes him walking away - his head hangs, his shoulders slump, there's none of the usual bounce in his step. Thomas could drag this out but the truth is it makes his heart hurt, too. And he knows this only leads to bitterness, an absolute stalemate. He sighs. But he needs more time.

“I'm still too angry. I can't right now,” he tells him. “Give me… Give me like, a couple more days, okay? Just a little more space.” He takes a deep breath and grasps Hamilton’s hand with his own, squeezes once and then pushes it out of his car. “I will get in touch.” He doesn't even fully trust himself to drive, but he has to get out of this parking garage, out of the stale air. Preferably, out of this city.

 

*

 

He does. He drives straight to Virginia after packing a change of clothes, to the family estate. He has a tense relationship with the house - he hasn’t been able to touch a thing since Martha died, and it all reminds him of her, of their kids, living with their grandparents as he hadn’t felt capable.

But the grounds - the near-endless fields - the grounds are a nostalgia less painful, the gardens, the woods. All of it full to the brim with memories of a truly privileged childhood. He wanders through the acreage and imagines the lawns when they’re kept, green and lush. At dusk crickets and fireflies take up a chorus of buzzing and chirping, and the rats nesting under the back porch squeak uproariously. He sits on an old rocking chair, his grandfather’s, and surveys the yard. There’s the scent of rotting wood and the two willow trees, old as time, sway softly in the breeze. Thomas breathes it in and lets it clear his lungs, and then he goes upstairs, passing his old bedroom door without so much as glancing at it. He curls up in the guest room on an empty stomach, because he feels too out of place to help himself to any of the canned food he may have left here. Too intrusive to sleep in what was once his own bed.

 

*

 

His phone dies sometime on Saturday afternoon - he’d neglected to bring a charger. His breath feels easier the entire drive back into DC, and by the time he pulls up to his building he’s feeling rather relaxed.

He leaves his still-packed weekend bag on the sofa. In his bedroom, sunlight streams through the floor-length window, the blinds cutting through to cast patterns of it on the wood floor. He opens the Venetians, opens the window, lets the air pour in though it’s in contrast to Virginia’s, slight bite of pollution. He plugs his phone in, sits on his bed and lets the warmth of the day wash over him. He’s still coming down from the miniature vacation, and is happy to let the peace last a little longer.

His phone, apparently having turned itself on, vibrates on the bedside table.

 

**(4:02p)** r u ok

 

All of this, and Eliza bothers to ask  _ him _ if  _ he’s _ okay. A saint, he would swear before God in her honor.

 

**(6:08p)** yes. you?

 

She avoids the question, he supposes. He’s not going to press it.

 

**(6:10p)** he told me what happened

 

He winces. This didn’t need to bleed into becoming her problem.

 

**(6:11p)** im fine. i went away for a minute.

 

And then, the topic neither of them really want to address.

 

**(6:11p)** is he all right?

 

It’s a moment before Eliza sends her response, but she spends a good portion of that typing it.

 

**(6:13p)** he’s stressed out, he hates hurting people

**(6:14p)** but he manages to do so anyway

 

Thomas thinks about how much that would sting if he were Alexander.

 

**(6:15p)** should i contact him?

 

**(6:15p)** only if u want to. only on ur terms.

**(6:16p)** he’s going to come back into ur life like a storm. he won’t leave u alone for a bit.

**(6:16p)** so if ur ready for that…

 

Thomas considers it. He’s over the crux of his anger, and is feeling reasonable, like talking it out and making Alex listen could help. The perspective granted to him by Monticello had done wonders for his headspace. Sure, he decides. He could take some gentling, some of Alexander’s overwhelming affection. He feels he deserves it.

He backs out of his conversation with Eliza and sends a text to Hamilton himself.

 

**(6:20p)** breakfast tomorrow?

 

**(6:21p)** When and where

 

Immediate response. Thomas lets himself enjoy the power he has over him, and then he feels sick about it.

 

 **(6:21p)** founding farmers around 9:30?

 

 **(6:22p)** See you then.

 

Thomas turns his phone off again.

 

*

 

The co-op diner is still empty when he gets there - he flirts with the waitress and orders a mimosa although he really needn’t drink right now. For Alexander he gets the same but requests the little bottles be brought to the table alongside the glasses for them to add themselves - in case Alex prefers to have the orange juice on its own.

He’s nursing the chilled champagne on its own when Alex slides into the booth across from him, bike helmet clasped around the strap of his smaller, weekend-size messenger. He smiles sheepishly at Thomas and tries to hide his immediate blush behind his menu, and Thomas feels himself melting all over again.

“Why do you need a menu?” he jousts, and Alex blushes harder. “I usually don’t eat breakfast,” he says, and, yeah, that makes a lot of sense. The man inhales juice and Red Bull, sometimes mixed, but is jittery for it in the mornings.

“You just binge in the evening, then?” Thomas means it as a joke, having seen him put away a whole pizza, but Hamilton looks a bit offended - his eyes harden and he glares at the spot Thomas knows contains the selection of fruit. “Look,” he says by way of peacemaking, “I’m buying. Get something hearty, like this.” He takes Hamilton’s menu gently from his hands and flips a page. “Their hash browns are wonderful - the potatoes fry perfectly. Get that, and two or three eggs over-easy, and sausage links and the mixed vegetables. They season them so they taste fresh but still flavorful.” He puts the menu down, nods once, resolutely. “It’s a good start to the day.”

Hamilton smiles and examines his champagne cooler, squinting at the label. “It’s not French?” he asks, looking to Thomas.

“That’s the gimmick of this place. Everything is local.” Hamilton hums at that and pours half the wine into his orange juice, sips and smacks his lips. He relaxes back in the booth. His hair is as messy as Thomas has ever seen it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Thomas stops him, holding out his palm.

“I appreciate it. I know you want to say that until you wear me down enough for me to accept it, but it doesn’t work like that, Alex. Saying that was uncalled for and it hurt and it sucks, for both of us. I forgive you but I can’t forget it.” Alexander looks dismayed. “Don’t worry about it, though. I get it. Everyone says things they regret sometimes, you’re not exempt. Don’t beat yourself up over it, you don’t deserve that.”

Alexander leans forward, elbows on the table. He rubs his forehead and closes his eyes. “I just - I get so mean when I’m high. It’s supposed to help me relax but it doesn’t. It makes me lash out.”

“So maybe don’t get high.” Thomas folds his napkin in his lap as he sees the server approaching. “Or, rather, don’t get high when your mental health is not prime to begin with. Don’t look at me like that, Alexander. You run away from things.”

He orders for both of them as Alex shrinks back into himself in the booth. He trains his eyes back on him when she walks off, and Alex is fidgeting with his place setting, clinking the silverware. He looks like he’s been called out, looks embarrassed to have been exposed.

“I’m not - do you think it’s satisfying for me to win a debate with you when I know what you’re struggling with? Do you think Eliza deserves to lose track of you for a weekend?” He doesn’t want to lecture him but he now remembers why he’d been mad in the first place. “You can’t expect us to be able to help you when you don’t let us know what’s going on,” he says, more gently, and when Alexander meets his eyes his own are wide and glazed with wetness.

“What are you doing for the rest of the day.” Alexander doesn’t phrase it as a question, because it’s not the question he wants to ask.

“You can come back home with me.” Alex lets out a breath; his lips part and his jaw relaxes. Their food comes, and Thomas notes that he clears his plate.

 

*

 

Eliza was right. At Thomas’ apartment, Alexander clings to him through two movies, squished into his side. He dozes on his shoulder and Thomas shakes him gently awake around five. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says softly, brushing Alex’s hair back from his face. “Let’s take a bath.”

Alex presses his nose against Thomas’ collarbone for a moment but he goes willingly, letting himself be pulled down the hall to the master suite. He strips off his clothes and leaves them at the foot of Thomas’ bed, unselfconscious and skin glowing in the low lamplight. Thomas swallows as Alex steps into the oversized tub, letting it fill the rest of the way before he strips and gets in himself, settling opposite of Alex in the triangular space. Alex’s feet tap against his thigh where he extends his legs, and Thomas takes one of them in his hands, holds it under the surface of the water and works the muscle at his arch. Alex groans, sinking lower so his leg bends at the knee.

“Good?” Thomas asks him, and Alex nods.

_ “Yes,”  _ he says, leaning his head back against the ledge of the bathtub. He lets Thomas hold what weight isn’t supported by the water, pushing into him. Thomas swells with affection; Alexander is comfortable, relaxed. He digs his thumbs hard into his foot a few more times before repeating the massage on the other foot, and then he beckons Alex to him, turning him so he sits between his legs to allow Thomas to wash his hair.

“That smells  _ so good,” _ Alex says after a moment of the shampoo being worked through his locks. He leans into Thomas’ hands and Thomas takes that as an invitation to massage his scalp; he takes the groan as confirmation.

He smiles. “Lemon zest,” he tells him, and he directs Alex to lay back and rinse.

Alex settles against his chest with his hair clean, turning only to press a hesitant kiss to Thomas’ lips. Thomas lets him wonder, doesn’t dive in and lets it linger after, soaping himself up and giving Alex a washcloth to do the same. He does it methodically, and the bathroom smells delicious by the time the mirror has fogged up and the water’s gone lukewarm. Thomas helps him out of the bath on shaky legs, and he pulls the moisture from Alex’s hair into a towel for him as the tub drains. “Go lay out on my bed,” he tells Alex quietly, as if anything louder than a whisper would break open the place they’re in, and he kisses the corner of his mouth. Alex pats himself down and then does as he’s told, and Thomas scrunches his own curls dry and watches him through the doorway. Alex settles on his back, reaches up to lightly grasp the iron bars of the bed frame. He looks down his own body at his feet and wiggles his toes. Thomas goes to him and straddles him, kisses him soundly. Alexander opens himself up, shifts his legs apart under Jefferson, and his hands grip the headboard tighter but he doesn’t let go.

Thomas breaks them apart when he starts to feel himself lose control. He gets Hamilton's hips propped up on a generous stack of pillows and his wrists bound with one of his shorter lengths of red silk rope to the headboard. He ties a length of black silk over Alex’s eyes and lets him pant through the process of getting him hard - Thomas slicks his hand with Astroglide and pumps him expertly, firm enough to insist upon his pleasure but light enough to tease. He loops the stretchy cock ring they’ve played with before around the very base of his cock, and his balls as well, drawing them together and tightening the clasp under them. Alex bucks, searches for Thomas’ hand when he takes it away, but he stays quiet.

Hamilton fidgets in the bonds, more nervous than usual. Thomas runs a hand down his chest and tries to soothe him though he can feel his own hands shaking slightly. He seems to respond to it anyway, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Breathe,” he instructs, and he encircles Alex’s waist with his hands, letting him feel their weight and size, knowing he gets off on the length of his fingers, the broadness and callouses of his palms. “In.” He pulls his hands down Hamilton’s body, across his hips, down to his mid-thigh. He taps there, one, two, three, and Alex holds his breath obediently.

“Out.” Hands over Alex's ribcage, almost up to his armpits, leaning forward as he goes. He feels Alex exhale against his cheek. He repeats the guidance a couple of times, then observes Hamilton continuing it on his own, a slow pattern - _ in. Beat. Hold. Beat. Out. _

“Breathe,” Thomas says again, and he pinches a generous portion of Hamilton’s nipple, rolls the bud around between his fingers. Alex grunts. He shifts his hips, still distracted by the ring. “ _ Breathe," _ Thomas repeats. He plucks two miniature clothespins from the mesh bag he keeps in the toybox, little brightly-painted wood. Eight of them were a dollar. He's never used them on anyone but himself. 

Hamilton’s lips are parted and his breathing is steady. Thomas has the clothespins in his mouth, and sets his face in concentration as he works one nipple and then the other into hard little peaks. Then he holds one tight, makes sure Alexander’s body is taut between the tie-point above his head and the pillows beneath him, angles the clip perpendicular to his tight nipple. Slowly lets it close over the peaked skin.

Alexander  _ screams.  _ He thrashes under Thomas, yanking at the rope like Thomas has never seen before, completely frantic. He knew he was sensitive but he never imagined he’d react like this.

“Breathe,” he tells him. He circles his darkened nipple with his finger but refrains from flicking the clip to antagonize him. “You know your word?”

Hamilton’s mouth is hanging open but he whispers  _ Yes, _ whispers  _ Columbia. _

“Are you saying it now?” Thomas asks, without a hint of judgement in his voice, and Alex shakes his head furiously.

“Keep going,” he says, and it’s like a dam breaking; his voice is guttural, husky. Thomas takes the other clip from between his teeth and sets it into Alex’s other nipple, and satisfyingly, he repeats the performance, writhing about and shrieking before the pain becomes less new and more bearable. Thomas runs his palms down his taut upper arms, feeling them relax under his touch; he backs up as he runs his hands down the full length of his body, working the muscles he finds jumpy and tight. Alexander labors under the attention, still in pain but trying to relax into Thomas’ hands. Gradually, he finds the right balance, arching up into Thomas’ palms even as he whimpers when he shifts enough to be reminded of the pinch at each of his nipples.

Thomas tells him what a good boy he’s being just before he sinks down onto his cock, swallowing without sucking. He bobs his head a few times, letting his saliva slide down the length of Alex’s shaft to make a mess of him. Alex tries to buck up, seeking so much more, but Thomas shoves his hips down into his pillows; he knows it’s not enough, and he wants to take Alex there in his own sweet time.

“Thomas,” Alexander pleads from above him, and Thomas presses a slow kiss into the hollow of his hip in response, inching a bit lower after to suck a bruise into his thigh. Alex falls apart some more beneath him, gives up on talking once and for all. Thomas lets himself study the contrast of the bright rope against his warm skin; red looks thoroughly becoming on Alexander, but he never wears it. He always opts for soft colors, earthy greens and ocean-blues and pastels. Ironic, considering the jewel tones fit his personality best; red for fire, purple for passion, for royalty. He wants to wrap Hamilton in all the colors that remind of him, the colors in the nuances of his skintone.

Without warning he picks up Alex’s balls, squishes them up under his cock, swallows the lot down to the base. Alexander lets out a noise like he’s absolutely dying, and Thomas would chuckle if his mouth weren’t so full. He stays put with his nose pressed into Alex’s neatly trimmed pubic hair; Alex starts mewling and chirping, the sensation too much, but Thomas won’t let him go. He shifts his hips desperately but Thomas holds his suction around him. Alex goes slack after a few minutes of this treatment; Thomas pulls off just as he’s resigned himself, letting saliva and precome drip from his lips onto Alex’s swollen cock, feeling extremely satisfied with himself.

Jefferson kneels up to palm at himself. He hadn’t actually planned to seek out his own satisfaction, but this is doing it for him more than he’d anticipated; Alex is so on edge, so needy and so perfectly submissive, and Thomas growls as he revels in the power of it, bucking into his own hand.

Alexander moans theatrically, thoroughly miserable. “You never did take well to being ignored, did you, love?” He shifts to swing a leg over Hamilton’s body and settles back on his upper thighs, the pillows making it easy to be on his knees and comfortably rest on Hamilton’s body. He grinds forward, his dick sliding against Alexander’s, and Alex whines loudly again. He tries to shimmy his hips and get some more friction but Thomas lifts up to avoid and tease him. “Ah-ah,” he tuts, “you a little eager, baby?”

Alex nods, draws a deep breath and lets it out shakily. Thomas leans down and nibbles at his earlobe, pressing them together at last, and they both hiss. It’s a lot, the slick of the lube and Thomas’ own saliva and their shared sweat, the heat surrounding them and in the miniscule space between them. Alex sobs as Thomas works his teeth and lips at his neck, grinding against the smaller body below him. He finally lets up on him, pushing his ass back against Hamilton’s cock, letting it slip between his cheeks. He grunts in surprise as the head brushes his hole, and is suddenly overcome with the need to be filled, and the brilliant idea that Hamilton might love to be used like this; he gets a condom from the drawer and rolls it down Hamilton’s cock, which jumps and throbs at his touch. Alexander’s stomach is tight and his thighs are shaking under Jefferson’s weight, but Thomas knows what he can take. He loves to be pinned down and overpowered on a good day, and this is the culmination of a very bad week. He senses that Alexander wants to be pushed to and possibly past his limits.

He pumps Alex’s cock behind him as he prepares himself with the other hand, balancing easily on his knees, just to torture him. Alex begs and keens before Thomas finally drops back to guide the thick head of his cock into him, and he groans low and breathy as it does. He wiggles down on it to work it into him further, taking control rather than letting Alex thrust. He loves this leverage, God, having Alex arched and perfectly at his mercy. Alex sometimes likes to fuck him if he asks but normally prefers to be taken care of, so this is a treat, and Jefferson gives himself permission for reckless abandon. He rocks forward and then back, setting a quick pace for himself, as Alex’s breath comes shorter and more shallow.

Leaning forward to brace himself on his hands by Alex’s shoulders, he pulls all the way off before sitting all the way back down, his ass slapping against Alex’s bony hips. Thomas moans, staring down at Alex though he can’t stare back, and suddenly he’s desperate to see his eyes, see the pleading and hope and apology in them. He yanks the blindfold away, his slip knot coming loose without effort. Alex’s eyes are wide as he’d expected, wet and dilated, and he looks up at Thomas with such open want that Thomas suddenly only wishes to soothe and gentle him.

He stills his hips, tells Alex to  _ Breathe, baby, please breathe, deep breaths, like before, _ and when Alex wills himself into something resembling normal respiration he figures the best way to do this is the Band-aid routine. He undoes both of the clips over Alex’s nipples at once, and Alex howls and shakes, the pain flooding anew to his chest. Thomas puts his lips over Alex’s left nipple and laves softly there with his tongue, while he presses into the other one with his index and middle fingers, hoping to make it more bearable.

But he doesn’t know how to regret it. Hamilton looks so grateful, as the scarlet flush comes up from his chest to his cheeks, that Thomas knows he was right. He throws himself back with renewed vigor onto Hamilton’s cock, and Alex grunts, really able to focus now. His hands grip the headboard once more for some leverage and he tries to buck in what little space he can, and he finds a rhythm that eventually has Thomas rolling his hips slowly for added sensation and otherwise letting him direct. Alex stares at him the entire time.

“Thomas, let me… let me…” Alex trails off, but he throws his head upward, toward the bed frame. His fingers are twitching, tapping erratically against the bars they’re curled around. Thomas releases those bonds as well, unwrapping his wrists and then holding them in his own hands, rubbing the feeling back into them. Alex bats him off and reaches up to place his hands at Thomas’ waist, and he draws circles there with his thumbs, jarringly tender. Thomas strokes himself as he works his hips slow over Alexander’s and he doesn’t want to come; he wants to stave it off forever, be right here forever, but he does, gasping out Hamilton’s name and clenching around his cock in his ass.

Alex doesn’t complain as Thomas takes his time coming down; he keeps tracing patterns on his skin with his light, deft fingers, keeps staring up at him, reverent. Thomas eventually regains his composure and crawls off of him, crawls up to kiss him. Alex buries his hands deep in Thomas’ hair and coaxes him this way and that, exploring his mouth as if he’s never been so lucky as to taste it before. He bucks against Thomas absently, and Thomas feels his slick hole pulse at the memory.

Thomas backs off again, kneels beside Hamilton, studies his cock as he takes the condom off and takes it in hand. Alex whines and tries to relax into it but he’s tense and needy, jerking at the touch. Thomas loosens his cock ring slowly as Alexander whines, digging his nails into his bicep to keep from coming. He’s shaking, holding tightly to the edges of his control. Thomas leans in to mouth at his jawline, and he whispers, “Come, baby, come for me,” and Hamilton loses it, moans loud and exhausted as he shoots, powerfully enough to reach his own chest and chin since he’s sloped up from the shoulders to the hips.

Thomas plays with his balls, rolls them in his hand, works him through it with light touches and breathy kisses. Hamilton turns and catches his bottom lip between his teeth, and Jefferson moans into his mouth, letting him kiss as brutally as he needs to, work out the last dregs of his need. He nips until his lips are swollen and flicks his tongue into his mouth, and Thomas lets them roll until Hamilton is on top, feeling the warmth and sleepiness soak off of him into Thomas’ own limbs.

Alexander can’t seem to stop kissing him; every time he pulls back for a breath Thomas thinks that maybe it’s over, and then he dives right back in, well past the point when they’re both breathless. Alex is sort of humping against him again but kissing lazily, not pushy. He just seems happy, comfortable. Thomas wraps his arms around him and pecks out to his cheek, down to his ear. “You mean to tell me you got more for me, baby?” he asks.

Alexander blushes and hides his grin in Thomas’ shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, and Thomas says  _ Don’t be,  _ kisses him again and encourages Alex up to his knees so he can pump at him lazily as they make out. Alex holds onto and rocks into Thomas, shaking, although there are no tears this time, just quiet, broken little moans and a steady motion of his hips. Thomas takes him apart like that, and Alex’s second ejaculation falls on his own stomach where he lies underneath him.

Alexander collapses, his body thoroughly spent. He nuzzles into Thomas’ neck and Thomas feels his chest rise and fall against his own. Hamilton is smaller and softer than Thomas, a comforting weight covering him. He kisses Alex’s cheek again and pushes his hair back from his face, studying him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, hoping for one answer and expecting another.

“I will be, if you shut up,” Hamilton tells him, and Jefferson decides his sense of humor being back is enough, for now. He knows they will have to confront his tendency to retreat, his tendency to lash out and place blame, his tendency to cut himself off and become unreachable, physically or otherwise, because now he’s part of this, he’s involved. He has to admit, though, that at the moment he feels like they shouldn’t involve themselves in much of anything besides the continued press of their skin against each other.

**Author's Note:**

> founding farmers is a real co-op restaurant on pennsylvania ave, pretty close to the white house. cool breakfast spot.
> 
> this is mainly from thomas' perspective, so his own emotional handicap isn't explored. that's something they should probably confront, too. i didn't want to bring martha into this without real implications, considering i just introduced her for jefferson's character development, so it's not going to remain like that. i plan to flesh that out later.


End file.
